CHAPTER ONE
**********************
I don't hate love.
I just...don't trust it.
People act like it's magic . Like it fixes things. Heals people. Makes life worth living. But all i've ever seen it do is make smart people act stupid--and leave a mess behind when it's gone.
I've read the books. Watched the movies. Listened to friends cry into cups of ice cream and then swear this one's different. i've seen the way love wraps itself around people's decisions like a warm scarf.
So no, i don't hate it.
There's a couple i see at the train station every other morning. She's always giggling, clinging to his arm like gravity's optional when he is around. He stares at her like she's the most fascinating thing in the universe, even when she's just tying her shoelace. Once, she tripped over his foot, and he apologized like it was his fault for existing.
And okay fineee---it was cute.
But it also made my stomach twist. Not with jealousy. just...caution.
I know how this ends.
One day, she'll laugh a little less. He'll stop noticing the way she tucks her hair behind her ear. someone'll say the wrong thing at the wrong time, and that'll be it. Silence. Distance. The great unraveling.
Maybe i'm cynical.
Or maybe i'm just realistic.
The gallery job is new.
It's quiet. Peaceful. Smells like old wood and paint.
Two weeks in and no one's learned how to pronounce my last name. Which is fine--I'm not here to make friends.
The gallery is a little independent space tucked between a tea shop and a bookstore downtown. Warm wood floors, too much natural light, and that ever-present hum of quiet conversations between people who think and pretend to "understand the artist's pain".
I mostly handle scheduling and cataloging, but sometimes i linger in front of the pieces. Especially the ones no one buys.
There's something tender about forgotten art.
Today i stood in front of a canvas splashed with black streaks and angry red slashes. It looked like heartbreak. Or war. Or a really bad spaghetti accident.
I tilted my head and muttered, ' Anger with a side of marinara'.
And i laughed out loud.
No one heard, thankfully. But i did. it felt...gooood.
Later, i sat on the fire escape outside my apartment. It's rusty and creaks every time i move, but it's mine. The city buzzed below, all sirens and neon lights and strangers moving like background actors in someone else's story.
My sketchbook was in my lap, opened to a new page.
I drew a girl standing in the rain, umbrella closed at her side.
No title yet. Hmm... Maybe willing. Or uncovered.Or maybe nothing at all.
Sometimes a drawing says more without a name.
Here's the thing, i don't believe in fate or signs. But something about tonight feels...shifted. Like the air is holding its breath. Like something's on its way.
I shake the thought off.
i've trained myself to expect nothing. But a tiny part of me-- deep in the part i usually ignore-- Whispers.
But even as i turn the page and press my pencil to a fresh sheet, that whisper lingers--soft, stubborn and stupidly romantic.
What if...
I blink, coming back to myself as a sudden gust of wind rushes around me. it tugs at my hoodie and sends a shiver down my spine. The air's gotten colder than i realized.
I pull my sleeves down, rub my arms, and try to shake the feeling. But my stomach rumbles before i can even finish the thought. Right. I skipped dinner. Again.
I getup, thinking maybe there's a granola bar in my bag--or a forgotten chocolate stash in the kitchen drawer. But a quick check confirms--Nope. i'm officially snackless.
Of course i am.
I sigh, grabbing my keys off the counter and slipping on my shoes. 'It's late'', the streets are probably wet, and i hate walking at night...But some cravings are stronger than common sense.
I wrap my hoodie tighter and head out...
*******
It was supposed to be a quiet night.
Rain wasn't In the forecast, and yet here I was drenched, irritated, and mentally cursing the universe as i clutched a flimsy convenience store bag like it contained treasure. In a way, it did. two chocolate bars, a pack of gum, and a bag of chips I didn't really like. Hunger didn't care about preferences.
I had been deep in my thoughts--about art, life, loneliness, the usual nightly playlist running in my head--when the wind swept in like it was trying to make a point. A strong, dramatic gust that whipped through the streets and reminded me that the world doesn't care how c are fully you try to hold it together.
I shivered as my jacket absorbed more water than it repelled. The rain came hard and fast, with no grace--just water and wind and that feeling of being small beneath it all.
I was halfway home when I saw him.
A figure, tall and still, standing beneath the flickering street lamp like he belonged there. No umbrella. no jacket. Just standing in the storm like it was a warm summer breeze.
For a second, I thought he might be a statue or some kind of hallucination. I mean, who just stands in the rain like that?
I hesitated, considered crossing the street. But then his head tilted slightly, and before I could talk myself out of it, I called out, " Hey... are you alright?"
He didn't move. just turned his head slowly towards me.
"I could ask you the same thing," he said. His voice was smooth, low, like it had weight to it.
"You look like a drowned cat".
I blinked. "wow. That's--thanks"
He didn't smile, not exactly. But something in the corner of his mouth twitched. "You're rushing like it's going to make a difference."
"I'm trying to get home. You know, where it's dry and sane".
"Fair ". he said " But you're already soaked. What's the point of hurrying now?"
I stared at him, stunned for a beat. " are you seriously giving me advice right now? in the middle of a storm?"
He shrugged like the rain didn't exist. " Just saying"
I narrowed my eyes. " well don't. I didn't ask for commentary on my walk"
" You stopped to ask if I was okay"
" And I regret it".
His brow lifted. "Touchy"
" I'm cold. i'm wet. I'm hungry. And you're standing there like some kind of philosophical scarecrow.
He actually laughed. Not loud, but real. " I've been called worse."
I shook my head, more annoyed at myself for stopping in the first place. " Whatever. Enjoy your... soaking."
He didn't stop me. Didn't say another word. Just watched as i stormed past, shoes splashing through puddles and dignity trailing behind me like a wet scarf.
I didn't look back.
Okay--maybe i did. once.
But he was gone...